


The world in my hands

by targaryen_melodrama



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes and Pop Culture, Bucky just loves Sam, Ficlet, M/M, My faves loving each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 10:05:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14850719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/targaryen_melodrama/pseuds/targaryen_melodrama
Summary: Sooo second fic is done.Shoutout and thank you to my favourite Nova Scotian for beta'ing this.This fic and its title were inspired by Sweater Weather by The Neighbourhood. I was at work, minding my business and decided to listen to this song. Heard the line "I hate the beach" and here we are.Please leave comments and/or constructive criticism, I'd love to hear what you thought!





	The world in my hands

“I don’t like sand _—_ ”

“Nope.”

He can’t see Sam’s eyes roll, but he can feel it in his bones.

“It’s coarse... and rough, and irritating,” Bucky whines, “and it gets _everywhere_.”

“Taking my precious free time to culturally educate you was a fucking mistake, Barnes.”

Bucky had made a science out of figuring out which lines, scenes, movies, trilogies and franchises Sam hated, which ones he appreciated, and which ones he would die for. The Star Wars prequels ticked all those boxes at once (and, according to Sam Wilson, don’t hold a candle to _Rogue One_ , “a pure and perfectly executed franchise masterpiece”). What does Bucky live for, if not to press all of Sam’s buttons?

Leaning against the patio door, he vaguely waves his metal hand towards where Sam’s back is to him, hands gently holding the railing of the villa’s balcony. “Must be my fault you’re doing an excellent impression of young Anakin, angst and all.”

“That make you Padmé?”

“Yeah,” Bucky clicks his tongue. “Got a problem with that?”

Sam finally turns, and Bucky gets the one gut-punch he’ll never be able to anticipate and the one he never wants to get used to. _God_ , Sam was pretty. The sun was setting, its dimming light still making diamonds dance on surface of the water, and casting a particularly beautiful light on his fiancé.

They’d been thoroughly enjoying this Tony Stark funded all-expenses paid ‘let’s be friends again’ apology trip. Sam was wearing nothing but the shortest orange short-shorts (“I work too hard for these thighs not to show them off, Barnes. Also, they’re _coral_ , not _orange_ , _Jesus_ ”), that emphasized thighs Bucky had literally dreamt about.

Bucky couldn't have pictured doing this, being here, in his wildest dreams, or during the few moments before break-out attempts, when he’d needed something, anything to latch on to.

Steve had said _—_ sappily, predictably, and annoyingly _—_ that love just made things better. But ‘love’ doesn’t quite cut it.

Bucky steps out of their bedroom and wraps his arms around Sam, who leans into him. It's then, in moments just like these, that he truly understands and can explain this to himself.

The Winter Soldier had thrived and been able to carry out missions because of his enhanced observation skills. That didn’t stop when the Winter Soldier started working towards being some version of ‘Bucky’ again. He still observed people, and the truth of the matter is that most people he’d encountered, the ones that are with someone _like that_ , are just happy not to be alone. Even more of them are just happy to be fucking on the regular. Had this _just_ been about ‘love’ _—_ the way most people who weren't Steve meant it anyway _—_ it would be different.

Once he was free (legally, and mostly free of Hydra), he _might’ve_ gotten a chance at just that kind of love. Companionship. Consistent sex. It would be…nice. He would be _content_. Pacified. It would be enough, really. More than he’d ever expect or think to ask for.

This here feels like the universe (or fate, or God knows who or what) was personally issuing an apology to him, and to say the universe had overcompensated is an understatement. _Sorry ‘bout the whole poor, then war-traumatized, then brainwashed by Hydra thing, sir, here’s a literal fucking angel to make up for it_.

“Barnes. Stop making the few brain cells you have left work overtime.” Sam turns in his arms and kisses his collarbone. “What's up?”

“Nothing.” When Sam frowns, he actually explains. “You know you're a gift from the universe?”

Sam’s frown is turning into one of the soft smiles that remind him of October evening cuddles and whispered promises of love and pleasure. One day he’ll tell him all of it, tell him that he’s a gift from the universe, and that he’s so fucking grateful that _—_   _somehow_ , _you fell into my hands. Taking care of you is fulfilling in ways I don't think I fully understand yet. All I know is that I _—__

"Love you, Buck,” Sam says and fully wraps his arms around Bucky, squeezing, then stroking his metal arm, “I don't know I got to be here, but I don't think I’d trade this for the world.”

Bucky squeezes Sam just a touch harder. He might not remember exactly everything that led him here, and he doesn't quite know how they got here either. But the day he finds a way to talk back to the universe, he knows word for word what he'll say.

 _Thank you_.

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo second fic is done. 
> 
> Shoutout and thank you to my favourite Nova Scotian for beta'ing this.
> 
> This fic and its title were inspired by Sweater Weather by The Neighbourhood. I was at work, minding my business and decided to listen to this song. Heard the line "I hate the beach" and here we are. 
> 
> Please leave comments and/or constructive criticism, I'd love to hear what you thought!


End file.
